My last official psych appointment was in late 2010—unless one was to count that intervention from my insurance company. My insurance company called and asked about the state of my mental health. They noticed that I haven’t seen a psychiatrist or psychologist in a while and had a few questions for me. A few days later, my primary physician called me in to discuss “blood work” but instead I was questioned about my bipolar disorder and lack of medication.
I told her that I was trying to get pregnant and that I was afraid the medication would deform my baby. That was a lie. I wasn’t trying to get pregnant. Hell, I wasn’t even in a relationship! I don’t feel like myself on antipsychotics. My bubbly personality and witty nature is nonexistent. I become the color gray—not too light, too dark. I no longer have a color swatch to choose from. Also, there’s the issue with the weight gain—as if I’m not fat enough. Then there’s this notion that taking meds means that I’m bat shit crazy.
She wrote me a prescription for Seroquel. She said that it was safe for women who were pregnant or trying to get pregnant. Damn it! My excuse lost all of its validity! I actually had to take medicine now. I stopped after a week or so. I didn’t feel like myself. I felt like one of those zombies from the Thriller music video—minus the kick ass choreography.
That was a year ago and I have been suffering ever since.
I can’t talk to my friends and family about this. They don’t understand. I don’t share the extreme burden that this disease has on me. I don’t want them to become their burden too. When I tell them that I’m depressed, they want to know the reason why. Sometimes I don’t need a specific reason to feel that way. I could wake up over the moon and want to hide under it a few minutes or hours later. I don’t get to pick my moods nor can I switch them on and off like a light switch. I wish I could though.
I’m ready to get back on medication and perhaps therapy. I’ve been avoiding medication like it was the plague. My days are beginning to accumulate more darkness and the reckless things I do (or want to do) while maniac isn’t healthy either. I want to be able to live a normal life and not think that someone may be watching me, following me or breaking in while I’m sleeping. It’s time to take control of my bipolar disorder. My appointment is in 2 weeks and I couldn’t be more excited about it.